


Poetry, Language, and Thought

by centrifuge



Category: Star Trek (2009), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Philosophical Wankery, Romantic Comedy, Semiotics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-03
Updated: 2011-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-15 08:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/centrifuge/pseuds/centrifuge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock gets schooled. Kirk is an honorary monk. Sulu is insubordinate, Chekov is wildly inappropriate, and Bones is the only person with an ounce of sense, and that ounce is all bourbon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poetry, Language, and Thought

**Author's Note:**

> I am in desperate need of a competent beta. Also, as far as I know Vulcan poetry might be cannon but hey! Reboot. Look at that.

            It was business as usual aboard the Enterprise, given a loose definition of the word.

 

            “You’ve been doing stupid things again,” accused McCoy as Spock dragged Kirk off the transporter pad.

            “The doctor has a gift for understatement,” Spock said at the same time Kirk said “If by stupid things you mean _awesome_ things,” Spock looked down with mild concern as Kirk giggled at his own blood and lolled his head back to smile winningly at Bones.

            “That’s it. I’m taking over the ship. _You,_ ” he thrust a finger at Spock, “can’t be trusted to keep him from beaming down, and _you_ can’t be trusted, full stop.”

            “Mutiny!” Kirk managed, then “Yipe!” for the hypo, and then he slumped onto the biobed. McCoy was red to his elbows, and Spock a bit drenched. He adjusted the captain’s limbs so that they lay at a natural angle, then turned away to resume his post. He hesitated at the door.

            “I presume you will have no difficulty with his injury, doctor?”

            “A few transfusions… I’ve got the bleeding stopped, now he just needs to heal. He’ll be back under your thumb in no time.”

            “He is not—“ he bit off his objection, noting that despite his confidence, McCoy was grim and focused and not really paying him any attention. Spock left.

 

 

           “Paper is a rare commodity in space. Why are you writing the same sentence repeatedly? This is a waste of resources.” The little Spock in Kirk’s head that translated the actual Spock’s speech into emotive language was agitatedly waving its little hands. Kirk smiled, and the bemused look on real-Spock’s face deepened. “This is a serious matter.”          




            “Bitch to Bones. He’s from an old school of disciplinarians, it seems.”

            Spock leaned slightly over the captain’s shoulder to see what he was writing, and raised an eyebrow. “’Being a charismatic stallion does not make me bulletproof’?”

            “Isn’t it sweet? Bones thinks I’m a charismatic and virile wild thing. Oh, if only someone would tame me!”

            “Why the red pen?”

            “Mmm, symbolism probably.”

            “I have noticed that humans rely heavily on symbolism to convey meaning implicitly.”

            “And Vulcans don’t?”

            “Vulcans find the use of symbolism, metaphor, simile and synecdoche in particular, to be bewildering. They are not means of forthright speech and disrupt the relationship between signifier and signified.”

            “So no poetry written by Vulcans, huh?”

            “As poetry is most commonly employed to express strong emotion, no. It is considered too uncivilized a form of artistic expression.”

            “But what do _you_ think about it? Just because something’s not civilized doesn’t mean it’s not awesome.” Kirk’s mouth curved at the corners, finishing his fiftieth line with a flourish and drawing a big heart next to it. Spock thought of his volume of Elizabeth Bishop hidden behind a field theory treatise on his bookshelf and said nothing. Kirk, having finished his punishment and treatment by the doctor’s standards, swiveled and hopped down from the biobed. “So! All that blood loss can really make a man hungry. Want to grab a bite with me?”

            “As you wish, captain.” Spock inclined his head, and Kirk assumed the lead jauntily.

 

            “Captain, I wish to ask for your assistance in understanding human behavior better,” Spock said as they sat down with their trays.

            “Anything that helps us get along better,” said Kirk around a mouthful of chickpea cutlet. “See? Vegetarianism isn’t killing me and we get along better already.” He swallowed. “So delicious and savory and nothing has to die!”

            “It has also improved my relationship with Doctor McCoy, who believes I have had some influence upon your decision.” Spock looked up as the selfsame doctor held eye contact and gave him a thumbs-up sign. Spock nodded slightly in his direction. “He is also currently insinuating as much.”

            “I guess I’ll have to find other ways to convince Bones I’m capable of sensible behavior without your oppressive, yet well-meaning regime.”

            “This hyperbole serves as an excellent segue into my preferred topic of conversation. Captain—“

            “Jim when we’re off duty, for the love of Surak.”

            “I hardly think it is fair to invoke the hero of my people for your threats, but very well. Jim, from my observations of your species, it appears that to emote strongly is a characteristic highly prized in most of your major cultures as a special trait that sets people above and apart from others. Indeed, I could cite you a list of cultural icons, leaders of revolutions, famous poets, musicians, statesmen, and military leaders who have defined and shaped human history utilizing these behaviors.” He paused.

            “I don’t think I can disagree with this statement, Spock. But it seems like there’s more to it.”

            “Correct. Also, in almost all of these cases, the behaviors occur either to incite violence against others or to oppress them, or in response to violence or oppression, or occasions of profound distress.”

            “That’s kinda true, yeah. Earth history has the unfortunate essential element of the passage of time, and the passage of time for humans is marked by death. The more deaths that occur at one event, the bigger the event’s place in the human timeline.” Kirk winced immediately upon saying this, and Spock rested his hand on the table near Kirk’s. Jim’s eyes followed it and stayed there. When Spock remained silent, he hazarded a glance. The Vulcan stared back at him intently, but without any trace of malice.

            “I know what you are thinking, Jim, and I assure you that I am aware that neither insult nor harm was your intent with those words. Indeed, no offense has been taken.” Kirk gave him a look of relief, nodded his gratitude, and carried on.

            “Though kingdoms and countries war, and those in power will use violence and oppressive behavior to take way all means by which they can be opposed, people still have one liberty: the liberty to feel. Do you know the ancient Earth myth of Sisyphus?”

            “I am afraid I do not.”

            “Sisyphus was this guy who was condemned by his gods to push a huge rock up a huge hill, only to have it roll to the bottom again, at which point he was forced to repeat the process, ad infinitum. He could not stop if he wanted to. He couldn’t even die.”

            “Doomed to an eternity of futility.”

            “Yeah, exactly. But this philosopher, hundreds of years later said ‘Well yeah, he can’t _do_ anything about it, but he can still love or hate it.’ The freedom to feel is mankind’s single liberty when everything else is taken away from him, and as such we cherish it.” He stopped short. “That’s not the only reason, though.”

            “I see.” Spock stood. “Thank you, Jim. You have given me much to think about. I will go meditate on this new information. May we speak on the subject again at a later time?”

            “Anytime.”

 

 

 

           The next morning Spock found a slim volume – an actual book – lying on the floor just outside his berth. It was a collection of poems. Spock read as he drank his tea, and found that, while dry when measured against other poetry he had read – Neruda, Baudelaire, Rilke – this actually suited his tastes better. He found himself enjoying puzzling out the imagery into concepts, which often had such disparate signifiers and signifieds that it became a riddle to unlock meanings. He applied his logic to it and found himself empty-handed, until his eye caught on a series of lines and stuck.

 

                        Do I dare

                        Disturb the universe?

 

            “We do this every day,” he said to himself at first. But then he thought, “Ought we? We can calculate within a reasonable amount of certainty that we are doing the right thing, but that does not account for the number of away missions we undertake that result in a negative outcome despite our considerations. There are a multitude of factors that we do not have available for our calculations, and there are factors that cannot be known. Also, it is impossible _not_ to disturb the universe, as we change things simply by existing.”

            “This,” he said to Kirk after their morning debriefing while slipping the book into his hands atop his PADD, “is a very good question. And thank you for the loan of your book.”

            The blinding smile he received in return was yet another unanticipated factor, and Spock found himself adjusting his perceptions regarding his commanding officer. Slightly.

 

 

 

            “Spock! Spock!” Kirk burst into his quarters waving his PADD at him, even as the word “enter” was leaving Spock’s lips. “If you say this wasn’t you I’m not going to believe you for a second, I don’t care if Vulcans don’t lie.”

            The protest died on Spock’s lips. “I assume you saw the dissertation I wrote and submitted to Starfleet Central Command regarding our organization’s motto?”

            “Did I ever!” Kirk laughed. “No one believes you wrote it, because a Vulcan suggesting that a Earth poet be quoted in every vestigial arm of the galaxy to new races? Never in a million years!”

            “I had perfectly logical reasons, as I outlined in my dissertation. I believe I made a very persuasive argument.”

            “It was more than persuasive, Spock. It was _impassioned._ You were passionate. I got hot just reading it. I knew you had strong emotions for reasons we no longer discuss because force choking is no longer a bonding exercise between commanding officers, but I didn’t know you were, well…” There was a protracted silence as Kirk aborted a grandiose gesture.

            “Captain, I am afraid I am unable to discern the destination of this line of inquiry.”

            “Neither can I, anymore.” Kirk looked at a loss for words, but this impression was short-lived and, as usual, ultimately misleading. “Let’s just say that you’re pretty much the hot topic among young female members of the crew.” Spock raised an eyebrow. “Moreso,” he amended.

            “This is irrelevant information.”

            “Young females are _never_ irrelevant! I am your wingman. We have important work to do. You, with the feeling, and me with the _feeling._ ” To Spock’s dismay, there were more grandiose gestures, each less subtle than the last.

            “Captain, I confess that I find your assessment of the situation distasteful and objectionable.” Spock stood up and made to usher Kirk out the door. Kirk held up his hands.    




            “Kidding, relax. And besides, I have better things to do with my time.”

            “Captain, I am shocked.”

            “Low blow. I _was_ going to say ‘hanging out with you,’ but you’ve ruined your chances.” Kirk began to saunter slowly out the door, and Spock knew it was a bluff, but still…

            “Captain, are you familiar with the poetry of a man named Mandelstam?”

            He turned. “Yeah. Why?”

            “I have obtained a particularly well-translated copy in English, although the native Russian is still available, if a bit obscure. There is a particular phrase that struck me in a similar way to the passage of Eliot’s. If you would prefer to discuss this in the doorway…” Kirk came fully inside and the door closed behind him. He took one of the two chairs next to Spock’s desk, and Spock took the other, placing his PADD on the table between them and pulling up the poem in question.

            “I believe I have found a passage that eloquently sums up the argument for poetry as a valuable art form.”

            “Big talk. Put your money where your mouth is.”

            Spock read him the poem in an even, modulated tone, but found himself struggling to control those aspects even so. He looked up briefly to notice that his captain’s eyes had fallen closed, and he marveled long enough at the picture it made that he briefly lost his cadence. “‘Poetry, you put storms to good use,’ is the line to which I referred earlier,” he said after he finished.

            Kirk was silent for a long moment, then opened his eyes. “It certainly is beautiful. But from a Vulcan perspective, it’s the storms that are the problem in the first place, right?”

            “On,” Spock paused and did not know why he was pausing. He cleared his throat. “On Vulcan, we would experience electrical storms quite frequently. They were dangerous if one ventured out into one unprotected, but our communities developed ways to capture and utilize the energy of lightning strikes. An analogous method employed on Earth would be windmills, or tide generators.”

            Kirk nodded. “I get it. If you are going to have them anyway, it’s best to put them to good use.”

            “Exactly so. Vulcans strive to master their emotions through extreme mental and physical control, but there are times when these methods are insufficient.” The destruction of Spock’s homeworld hung in the air between them, unspoken.

            Kirk nodded again, staying silent.

            “The only logical conclusion I can derive from this discourse is that poetry would benefit what remains of my species, both as a coping mechanism in writing, but as a way to share experiences with other species, and emotional wisdom with generations to come.” Spock leaned back in his chair, folded his hands in his lap and looked down at them. “It is regrettable that I am the only one who would see it thus.”

            Kirk reached out and clasped his shoulder, and neither of them moved for a long minute, companionable in silence. Spock became acutely aware of the minute motions of Kirk’s thumb, stroking his shoulder gently through the cloth of his uniform. Eventually, Kirk sucked in a breath, dropped his hand and stood.

            “I have beta shift in ten, so I should get going.”

            “Understood. Thank you for your time.”

            “It’s yours for the taking. And hey, Spock?”

            “Yes, Captain?”

            Kirk leaned against the doorway and pinned him with his gaze. “They may not see it your way now, but they never will without someone to show them in the first place.” There was a pause while he allowed this to sink in. “And also, you just said ‘emotional wisdom,’ which I am never going to let you forget is right next to ‘sexual healing’ in the Encyclopedia of James Tiberius Kirk.” Then there was a blinding grin, a flare of blue, and the snick of the closing door imprinted on Spock’s sense-memory for several moments, and he felt warm.

 

 

 

            “Doctor.”

            “Spock. Spock, meet Bourbon, who you so rudely interrupted. Now we’re all acquainted.” McCoy took another sip from his glass, sighed, and leaned back at his desk, lacing his fingers and cradling his head in them. “What can I do for you?”

            “I wish to discuss with you some startling changes I have noticed in the captain. You are his closest friend, and I was hoping that you would perhaps have some insight into the matter.”

            “Don’t say he’s acting like a fool, ‘cause he’s been doing that since I met him.”

            “On the contrary, Doctor. It is rather an anomaly of… somberness in his behavior that I find so troubling. Recently, I have approached the captain with a series of serious inquiries about human nature. To my surprise, I received a serious and engaging response of great intellectual depth and breadth. I am not merely referring to his many scientific and mathematic achievements; those are well-known. The depth I am referring to is an understanding of the nature of humankind, much of which applies to other sentient species, the extent of which I am not entirely sure. It is certainly immense.”

            “You don’t say,” McCoy drawled into his tumbler, taking a much larger drink, and smiling in a way that suggested he knew something Spock didn’t.

            “I do, doctor. And what troubles me is that if he has this knowledge, why does he not employ it? Why play the fool? Is it strategy? Is it to keep others at a distance? To continually be underestimated? If he loves poetry and profound emotion so much why does he appear to avoid interactions with others in which he can engage these interests?”

            “Why are you asking me these questions again?” He slid the glass across to Spock, who took a sip out of courtesy before sliding it back. McCoy nodded in approval, still smiling wryly. “Because it seems like you’ve got more answers than I do.”

            “You know something I do not.”

            “I know a lot of things you don’t, and they’re mainly things you don’t discuss over a glass of fine whiskey, if you’ll take my professional word for it.”

            Spock leaned forward, intent. “I must know—“

            “If you must know, then why not ask _him?_ ”

            Spock straightened and stood. “Thank you, Doctor. I will not waste any more of your time.”

            “Spock.” The doctor lost his smile in a heavy sigh. “I know you like to take things apart and find out how they work. Don’t take Jim apart out of sheer curiosity. He’s not an experiment in your lab that you can adjust variables and controls with until you’ve distilled him down to a neat little equation.”

            “The Captain is my friend. I would not hurt him.”

            “You go behind his back to learn his secrets and you would not hurt him? Repeat that in your head a couple times until it makes sense or you burst a blood vessel, because fuck you if you think that’s what friendship is.”

            “The terms of the relationship between myself and the Captain are not subject to your personal standards.”

            “I’m calling bullshit on you, Spock, because I’m friends with him too and a friendship with Jim is a lot like dating, ‘cept without the bases. He demands your time, your attention, your mind and your spirit, flashes you a smile and slings an arm around you and you keep coming back for more.”

            Spock thought, He does not make any such demands on me.

            He thought, Does he not?

            He said, “I did not come here to argue with you.”

            “Well, you get that anyway.” They both craned their necks toward sickbay from the office as they heard a shout. Kirk came through the door a moment later, flushed like he’d been running.

            “Spock! I looked everywhere else, so I – Are you guys fighting again?” Kirk looked between them with dismay. “And so soon after the ship-wide Axolotl unity festival. Have we learned nothing from the amphibians?” McCoy tilted his glass at Spock and leveled him a look that said “You see?”

            “The doctor and I were debating the merits of scientific experimentation in regards to social forms of expression,” which wasn’t entirely untrue.

            “Oh-kay… A little weird. That’s fine. Just don’t fight. It makes Chekov cry.” Having resolved the situation to his satisfaction, Kirk turned his attention solely on Spock, who immediately felt the immense intensity of said attention, which he hadn’t noticed before.

            No, he had noticed it before, but in a different way: he felt warm. He felt warm now, too, and found that as Kirk looked expectantly at Spock, flushed and excited, that the warmth was attributed entirely to this particular exchange.

            “Captain. For what reason have you sought me?”

            “I – Come on, there’s not enough time to explain. I have to show you.” Outside sickbay, however, Kirk slowed his pace. “I lied. I just didn’t want to tell you in front of Bones because I’d never hear the end of it. So… I sorta accidentally hacked into the Gogelian book repository –“

            “’—hacked into’?”

            “—broke into—“

            “’-- accidentally’?”

            “Ugh, fine! I intentionally broke into the Gogelian book repository – which has only _every book ever_ – to make you a playlist.”

            “A reading list?”

            “Whatever. Do you want it or not?”

            “I do not want you to undertake illegal actions on my behalf.”

            “I was just kidding about that part.”

            “Then…  I have no objection.”

            Smug, Kirk handed over the PADD, then leaned close to point. “The types of the books vary, but they’re all related.”

            “This is compelling,” Spock said, already lured in by _Poetry, Language, Thought._ Kirk laughed.

            “You’re excited, and you’re welcome,” he said, and laughed again before waving and walking away. McCoy appeared behind Spock and seemed pleased to have startled him.

            “I heard every word. Congrats. You’re dating. Don’t fuck him over or I’ll make it look like a natural death.”

            Spock spend the better part of the evening alternating between _truth is inherently poetical_ and _what?_

 

 

 

 

            “Captain!” Spock put his fist through the diplomatic attaché’s immunity and cold-clocked him, pushing a struggling, ever-bleeding Kirk behind him. “Are you injured?”

            “Nothing --ungh... Serious.” Somewhat serious, then.

            “Are you armed?” Spock drew his phaser and stunned a would-be assassin, glancing about in the darkness with concern. Whoever had taken out the lights was surely still in the room.

            There was an alarming cracking sound, a groan, and then rustling. “I am now.”

            “There are at least three other hostiles in our immediate vicinity.” A phaser blast from just behind his left shoulder flashed off into the darkness, briefly illuminating the look of horror on an assailant’s face before darkness fell once more. “Two. Thank you.”

            There was a wet cough behind him that dissolved into a chuckle. “Get me to the door control panel and cover me.”

            Spock’s eidetic memory guided them with near-perfect precision to the panel he had spotted upon their arrival. He hoisted Kirk under one arm and half-carried him there, noting with alarm the dampness along his left side. “We are here.”

            “Help me find the panel, I can’t see shit.” Spock fumbled for his hand and slid his fingers along the back of it until he was grasping it, guiding it to rest on the control panel’s cover. “Thanks.”

            Kirk’s concept of “covering them” was going to do more harm than good, if the phaser flashes gave their position away. He grabbed the nearest unconscious body and hefted it as a shield, holding his phaser out in front. Kirk worked in silence; Spock could hear his breathing, the quiet patter of his blood dripping to the floor, the sound of feet off to the side…

            Spock fired and was rewarded with a groan cut off by a crumple-thud.

            “You’re the best,” breathed Kirk in his ear, causing the hairs on his neck to stand on end. “And so am I.” Spock could feel the smirk against his neck as the door slid open. “I’m going to need some help, though, I can’t… I wish someone would spread the gospel of energy weapons to these fuckers.” He was leaning heavily on Spock’s back now, his face against his neck, mouthing the words into his skin. Spock’s thoughts scattered. “Also, I’m sorry I’m all over you. I know you hate that.”

            Spock rallied his focus and hoisted Kirk onto his back, sidling toward the door, one arm supporting Kirk and the other juggling his living shield and his phaser. “Not at all, captain. It is merely the circumstance that makes it so unpleasant.”

            “Not the whole touch telepathy thing?”

            “I can’t read your thoughts in this manner, just impressions and strong emotions. Nothing you are feeling – aside from your own pain, which I assure you, we will have words over – is unpleasant to me. It feels… warm.” There it was again. What was that? In the light from the now-open bay door, Spock sighted and shot their last assailant, taking three bullets to his now-dead shield.

            “Warm, huh?” Kirk said, and the feeling increased ten-fold. Spock closed his eyes briefly, then hailed the _Enterprise_.

 

 

 

            “Can’t Starfleet maybe invent a bullet-proof dress uniform? Why aren’t we wearing something a little more protective than a breathable cotton-poly blend? Has _anyone stopped to think about this?”_ Kirk opened his eyes and tried to breathe deeply. The weird gurgling in his chest had stopped, but breathing still felt like a chore. He tried again, starting to panic when it didn’t work.

            “Relax, Jim. The machine’s breathing for ya until your lung regenerates. Don’t try to speak around that tube. I just don’t want to hear it. I’m in no mood. Also you need to rest for a bit. Even Jesus only got resurrected once, and he ain’t come back yet. Remember ye are mortal, kid, and next time? Insist on a security detail.”

            Having received the Bones Litany, Kirk held out his hands solemnly for the Eucharist, and Bones flicked his nose. “Fuck you. Caring isn’t the same as sanctimony.”

            “Spock—“ Christ, that felt like gargling marbles.

            “Is meditating in the next room because I told him it was either that or a hypo if he wouldn’t calm the fuck down.” Kirk made a gesture like “Spock is calm ALL the fucking time” and Bones rolled his eyes. “Don’t act like you can’t see beyond his ‘I am one Zen motherfucker’ routine.” Kirk smiled fondly and nodded, shifting his gaze to the wall. “I’ll send him in but you have to promise to stay quiet.” Kirk nodded again and Bones patted his leg in a friendly yet slightly menacing way, then left. Spock walked in and sat down next to the biobed.

            “I have been informed that pain will be visited upon me in my sleep if I allow you to speak,” he said in his quiet, even tone. Kirk made a gesture like “Oh, you know Bones.”

            “Indeed,” replied Spock. “Which is why I brought along a favorite book of mine. I had anticipated your need for some form of intellectual stimulation.” He held up the copy of Bishop’s collected works and Kirk made another gesture, this one seeming to say “Man, you have been holding out on me!” The left corner of Spock’s mouth turned up. “Alas, I have a confession to make. Elizabeth Bishop has been a favorite of mine since childhood. My mother read me her poem ‘The Imaginary Iceberg,’ and, though having never seen one, it formed such an image in my mind of one that pictures could never compare. I have long wondered why. It is thanks to your frequent conversations with me that I am beginning to comprehend the value of that image.” Kirk made no gesture, but met his gaze and held it. “Captain, I… We are friends, correct?”

            Without breaking eye contact, Kirk nodded once vehemently and grasped Spock’s wrist. Spock turned his arm within the circle of Kirk’s fingers and returned the embrace. A sliver of skin touched, and again Spock felt that surge of warmth, not radiated like a heat source but directed entirely at him. He wondered at it, and wondered if he was doing the same to Jim. He decided to take the warmth he felt in response and projected it through the touch. Jim pinked inexplicably, his eyes going wide. Spock let go of his wrist.

            “I apologize. I have overstepped my bounds.” He stood. “I will take my leave.”

            Kirk’s eyes went even wider and he managed a “No—“ before he winced and motioned for Spock to sit down. Kirk managed to make a gesture that conveyed “I cannot possibly make a gesture that will adequately convey what I’m attempting to say right now, so just read to me.” This seemed to exhaust him, so he turned his sleepy, half-lidded gaze imploringly at Spock and pointed at the chair once last time before bringing his arms to rest at his sides. Spock took pity on him and sat, opening the book.

            “’Earliest morning, switching all the tracks,’” He began, “’that cross the sky from cinder star to star’…”

            Kirk was asleep by the last line of the poem, his face turned toward Spock. Spock closed the book and looked at him for a long time.

 

 

 

            That night, Spock slept and dreamed of his mother. This was not an unusual occurrence, but upon waking, he found himself, oddly enough, comparing his telepathic bond with his mother to his limited telepathic interactions with Kirk. He was intrigued, if not deeply concerned about the implications.

 

 

 

            “Captain, I believe I have come to the conclusion you have intended with the reading selection you gave me,” Spock sidled up alongside Kirk near the officers’s mess replicator.

            “You finished already? Spock, it’s been a week, tops. I gave you fifty books!”

            “Vulcans do not require as much sleep as humans,” he replied archly, undermined by the grayish-green hollows beneath his eyes. Kirk laughed delightedly.

            “I can just see you as a child, hiding under the bed sheets with a book and a flashlight.” Spock inclined his head but gave no comment, which was as good a confirmation as any. Kirk laughed again and moved to sit at a table with his food. “So what’s your big revelation?”

            “It would take more time to discuss than I have at the moment, as I was merely stopping in to procure lunch on the way to the science lab, where I will eat while awaiting the outcome of an experiment. Perhaps you can meet me in my quarters tonight?”

            “Uh, sure. I’m free around eighteen hundred.”

            “Excellent. I will look for you then. If I am meditating and do not answer, please feel free to let yourself in.” Spock inclined his head at Kirk once more, then departed with his tray.

            “Um, Captain. Was the Commander asking you on a date just now?” Sulu looked at his commander’s retreating form with budding glee.

            “Ha! Spock? No. We’ve just been reading poetry together and he has something to tell me.”

            Chekov shrieked. “He did! He totally did!”

            “Yeah, if _that_ wasn’t a date, then he’s definitely going to ask you on one tonight.”

            “Guys, first of all, it’s not like that, and secondly, even if it was, I’m pretty sure Spock’s not into men.”

            Sulu must have been taking lessons from Uhura, because he gave him the patented “you are the stupidest person alive” look. “You have been practically joined at the hip for the last year, and –“

            “—And I’d’ve known if he’d been dating anyone, let alone any guys. But he hasn’t.”

            “Because he’s been with you all that time,” said Sulu slowly. “You know we’re bros, right?”

            “Right.” They bumped fists.

            “Would I mess with you?”

            “Hell yeah.”

            “Well, I’m not this time. The stakes are too high. I _work_ with both of you.”

            “Even if you weren’t, I’m not g-“

            “Oh please. As if you would limit yourself to one sex.”

            “Or one species.”

            “Or one star cluster.”

            “Hey guys, guys,” Kirk held up his hands. “You flatter me.”

            “There are many words for such a man in Russian,” said Chekov. “Most of them flattering.”

            “The point being—“

            “One of them is _gay._ ” Chekov smirked a little baby smirk.

            “Some of the _sex_ I _have_ is _gay_ ,” Kirk corrected. “The point being—“

            “And when was the last time you had any?”

            “Last—Since… uh, not since…” Kirk let his face hit the table. “Oh, _fuck_.”

            “Say it,” ordered Sulu, closing in for the kill.

            “Not since Spock and I became friends about a year ago. A year! Without sex! How did I not notice?!” He banged his head down a couple times for good measure.

            “I rest my case,” said Sulu.

 

 

            Kirk arrived at Spock’s door with a strange mixture of excitement and pants-wetting terror. Excitement because, here was the person he’d been spending nearly all of his time with, bleeding on, or being carried by, and he found that though he enjoyed all of it – even the bleeding – their relationship had the potential to go one of two directions tonight. And pants-wetting terror because he wasn’t sure which one he wanted more.

            Spock didn’t answer, so Kirk used his override as instructed, and entered the room. Spock was sitting in the meditation pose, but his head was nodding perilously close to the chest and his incense had long since smoldered itself to ashes.

            “’Vulcans do not require as much sleep as humans,’” Kirk mimicked quietly. Spock’s lashes were dark smudges against his pale skin, and his face was unguarded, a sight Kirk had seen a scant handful of times. His position looked painful, so Kirk eased him gently back to rest against the side of his bed, his legs unfolding naturally to more comfortable coordinates. Kirk sighed, ran his hand over his own face, and swallowed hard. “Yeah, I am pretty much totally in love with you.”

            Kirk draped a heavy blanket over him, and he woke when the blanket touched his chin. “Captain. Jim. I apologize, I was more tired than I realized.”

            “It’s all right, Spock. We can meet another time. Tomorrow, even.” Was he always this eager sounding? He cringed inwardly.

            “I would have preferred the discussion to take place while it was still fresh in my mind—“ He yawned, and the totally-in-love-with-Spock part of Kirk exalted in the sight of this vulnerable, never-before-seen gesture “—but I have overestimated my ability to function at normal capacity without sleep.”

            “Hey,” said Kirk far more softly than he intended, “It’s okay. Tomorrow night?”

            “Jim.” Spock looked like he wanted to say more, but merely held up his hand, dropped it to his lap suddenly, looked up at Kirk and looked back down at his lap. “That will be amenable.”

            “Okay. All right. Um… Good night then, Spock.” Kirk smiled, and walked out the door. What. The. Fuck. Spock was going to kiss him! Vulcan style, he was pretty sure. And he was walking away? Something was horribly wrong with this picture.

            He had crossed to his quarters and taken off his shirts when his door chimed. He froze. “Enter?”

            “You fail at romance,” Sulu said, “or you would not be here.”

            “I kind of hate me.” Kirk flung himself backward onto his bed. “You were so totally right it’s not even funny.”

            Sulu sat on his desk, and the door chimed again. “Enter,” they said at the same time. “Insubordination” came from Kirk, and Sulu just laughed as Chekov sidled in.

            “Oh Captain,” he said sadly. “You did not acquire the Vulcan peen.”

            “Please don’t refer to your CO as ‘Vulcan peen’ ever again.” Kirk ran his hands over his face and up through his hair. “This is absurd. This has _nothing_ to do with his… Okay, not nothing. But this is… this is worse.” He laughed, the last notes creeping into hysteria. “Sex I can _handle!_ ”

            The door chimed. Kirk threw it a look of despair. “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.” Scotty stood in the door, holding two bottles and looking smug.

            “I heard there was someone in this berth who required a great deal of drink.” Sulu pointed at Kirk; Chekov pointed at Kirk, changed his mind, and pointed at himself. “Never mind, there’s plenty t’ gae aroond.”

            “How the hell did you get here?”

            “I paged him two minutes ago,” said Chekov. “It seemed appropriate.”

            “Nothing about today is appropriate.” He thought about his almost-fingerkiss. “Pass that bottle here.” The first bottle went from Sulu to Chekov, who unscrewed the cap, and took a long drink. Kirk was mildly impressed.

            “Russians invented remorseful drinking,” said Chekov, although it was a token gesture. He passed over the bottle to Kirk, who took an even longer pull, because he’d look bad, as captain, if he couldn’t throw back more than his youngest crewmember.

            He sighed. “Guys, this is fucked up. How did I—When did I—“

            “Probably about the time he nearly choked you to death.”

            “And threw you off a spaceship.” Chekov added.

            “And then faced certain death with you in a display of great ‘uge testicles.” Scotty opened the bottle he hadn’t relinquished.

            “And then decided to serve under you rather than help salvage the tattered remains of his species.”

            “The point being,” Sulu said, leaning back and knocking over a couple of things, “It’s been happening little by little since you met him. You’d probably have stayed close friends as it was, but then you started reading _poetry_ together.” The room filled with unabashed snickering. “If you weren’t wooing Spock, then what the hell were you doing?”

            “I dunno, man. First he was telling me that poetry had no value to Vulcans. You know I can’t back down from a challenge like that. Then it was like… this great adventure into unknown territory together.” He paused. “Not unlike some other things we do aboard a starship in unknown territory.”

            “I hope you introduced him to great Russian poet Pushkin,” said Chekov, who’d taken a swipe at the bottle dangling from Kirk’s hand and succeeded.

            “Nah, but he did get Mandelstam.”

            “Ah, very good choice.”

            “And anyway,” Kirk continued, “I had a really good time on the last couple away missions with him.”

            “You nearly died both times!”

            “Yeah, but it was still fun. Everything we do together is the best time I’ve ever had.” The memory evoked a spreading smile from Kirk, which faded as he moved on to his next thought. “What am I going to do? Even if he does feel the same way, I’m probably going to fuck this up. I fuck everything up.”

            “You’re an excellent starship captain,” said Chekov earnestly.

            “No brownie points.” Kirk cocked a finger at him and he shrugged, offering the bottle in recompense. Kirk took it and swigged.

            “The worst he can do to you is throw you across the room and never speak to you again.”

            “Not helping, thanks.” The door chimed again. “Captain Kirk’s Lonely Hearts Club Band! Only the sympathetic or lovelorn may enter.” The door slid open on “enter” anyway.

            Spock stood in the doorway, looking sleepy and harried and highly suspicious of the small gathering of bridge and command staff in Kirk’s quarters. Kirk began the slow and painful process of shriveling up and dying of humiliation.

            “I appear to be interrupting. My apologies.” Spock backed out of the room.

            “No, Spock! Wait!” Kirk tossed the bottle to Chekov, leapt from the bed with minor technical difficulties (what was _in_ that stuff, anyway?), and went out the door after him. Spock paused at his door and half-turned. Kirk caught his elbow and turned him the rest of the way.

           “I’m a little drunk,” he admitted. Spock raised the Eyebrow of Sarcastic Disbelief.

           “I am very tired,” said Spock, “but I found myself unable to sleep after you left.” He punched in his door code and went inside. He made no gesture for Kirk to follow, but he didn’t seem upset, so Kirk went anyway.




            “Is there anything I can do to help?” Kirk asked.

            “There might be.” Spock paused, looking uncertain. “If you recall, I wished to share my thoughts with you regarding the several books I have read recently. But that is not the totality of what I wished to speak about. Jim… do you remember the incident on Vilent?”

            “Kinda hard to forget,” Kirk laughed. “Ballistic weapons. Punctured lung. You carried me and I bled all over you and we had a great time.”           




            “Your standards are very low,” said Spock.

            “Did I ever thank you? I’m sure you think it makes no sense to thank you. But I am grateful and I’m glad that you’re here.”

            “You provide masterful segues, Jim.”  Kirk smiled. “Your sentiment is reciprocated. Furthermore, as I said before, I am not adverse to your touch.” Before Kirk could respond, Spock plowed on. “This is most curious to me, as even though I am capable of shielding myself from the thoughts and emotions of others, I find I am reluctant to do so with yours.”

            “That’s fine with me,” said Kirk, a little nonplussed. “My house is your house, brain, whatever.”

            “Then if you are not adverse, I would like to touch you.”

            “Uhhhh…” Kirk’s brain went into overdrive to parse this. “No, not at all. Is this some kind of. Is this. …What is this?”

            “Not an experiment,” Spock said urgently. “An explanation. For this, I need to touch you. A little.”

            “And this is what you got out of all those books? Not what I intended, I have to say.”

            “It is somewhat related.”

            Kirk pushed up his left sleeve and held out his hand, palm up, trying not to be presumptuous, and also trying not to shriek. Spock touched the tips of his first two fingers to the inside of his wrist. There was a jolt of physical heat, then warmth spread throughout his entire body, making him feel giddy.

            “Spinoza taught you that, did he? Not that I’m complaining,” Kirk said, half a laugh.

            “Spinoza taught me that joy that we can only attribute to an outside source is better known as… as love,” he faltered. “This is what I experience in your presence, or when I think of you, which is nearly all of the time.”

            “Spock,” whispered Kirk, slightly embarrassed and also awed. “I’ve felt this before.”

            “So have I. Vilent.”

            “You said… that I feel warm.” Kirk touched his fingers to the inside of Spock’s wrist and closed his eyes. “Like this. Like this?”

            “Yes.” Spock looked up at him, and his face was open, earnest, and if Kirk was reading him right, nervous. Well, that was appropriate. He was too.

            Spock’s hand slid down until their fingers touched, his eyes not once leaving Kirk’s. “Jim. This is not something… I do not _do_ this.” He ended the touch. “I said that I loved Nyota because the signifiers were there: we enjoyed one another’s company, we had affection, attraction, and cared for one another. But the signified, the true emotional content I had not sufficient experience to comprehend. It is only now that my grieving has abated some that I am able to recall with clarity the only other such source of warmth.”

            There was a significant pause. “I’m going to hug you now,” Kirk said.

            “Okay,” said Spock.

            “Other things may happen. You just declared your profound love for me. I can’t be held responsible. You understand, of course.”

            “Of course.” They just looked at each other for a moment, then Kirk fisted the elbow of Spock’s shirt and they tilted toward each other, a little dizzy, Spock’s arms sliding around Kirk’s waist and Kirk’s coming to rest loosely on his shoulders, one hand snaking up to sift hair through his fingers, and the other to cup his face.

            “You love me.” He said softly. “Is there anything else in there for me?”

            “Yes,” said Spock, and kissed him, knocking the wind out of him with the onslaught of emotions. Joy, love, desire, concern, the fear and frustration concerning Jim’s recklessness, the delight of being intellectually challenged, amusement. _And this, and so much more._

            “It is impossible to say just what I mean,” Kirk recited in response, breaking the kiss. “I can’t stop smiling. I could kiss you again if I wasn’t smiling so much, because then you wouldn’t just be kissing teeth.”

            “I like your teeth.”

            “This is a non-optimal kiss.”

            “Stop smiling, then.”

            “I can’t!”

            “Dead kittens,” Spock informed him solemnly. “Dead dead dead.”

            “What?” The smile faded from Kirk’s face, and Spock dove to kiss him again, tasting confusion, then amusement, then joy.

 

            Kirk sat down gingerly at the mess table. Sulu looked unbearably smug, Chekov smirked in a pale imitation of James T. Smirk, and Bones’ mouth made funny shapes before he finally said to Spock, “Hidden depths—“

            “That is not what I had in mind at the time,” Spock said primly. Everyone exchanged looks. Spock looked at Kirk, who raised an eyebrow. The corner of Spock’s mouth twitched. “Although they are more than adequate.”


End file.
